edge of the rock, looking at them
fearlessly. Tartarin brought his piece to his shoulder methodically, as
his habit was, and was just about to fire when the chamois disappeared.

"It is your fault," said the Commander to Pascalon... "you whistled...
and that frightened him."

"I whistled!.. I?"

"Then it was Spiridion..."

"Ah, _vai!_ never in my life."

Nevertheless, they had all heard a whistle, strident, prolonged. The
president settled the question by relating how the chamois, at the
approach of enemies, gives a sharp danger signal through the nostrils.
That devil of a Tartarin knew everything about this kind of hunt, as
about all others!

At the call of their guide they started again; but the acclivity became
steeper and steeper, the rocks more ragged, with bogs between them to
right and left. Tartarin kept the lead, turning constantly to help the
delegates, holding out his hand or his carbine: "Your hand, your hand,
if you don't mind," cried honest Bravida, who was very much afraid of
loaded weapons.

Another sign of the guide, another stop of the delegation, their noses
in the air.

"I felt a drop!" murmured the Commander, very uneasy. At the same
instant the thunder growled, but louder than the thunder roared the
voice of Excourbanies: "Fire, Tartarin!" and the chamois bounded past
them, crossing the ravine like a golden flash, too quickly for Tartarin
to take aim, but not so fast that they did not hear that whistle of his
nostrils.

"I 'll have him yet, _coquin de sort!_" cried the president, but the
delegates protested. Excourbanies, becoming suddenly very sour, demanded
if he had sworn to exterminate them.

"Dear ma-a-aster," bleated Pascalon, timidly, "I have heard say that
chamois if you corner them in abysses turn at bay against the hunter and
are very dangerous."

"Then don't let us corner him!" said Bravida hastily.

Tartarin called them milksops. But while they were arguing, suddenly,
abruptly, they all disappeared from one another's gaze in a warm thick
vapour that smelt of sulphur, through which they sought each other,
calling:

"Hey! Tartarin."

"Are you there, Placide?"

"Ma-a-as-ter!"

"Keep cool! Keep cool!"

A regular panic. Then a gust of wind broke through the mist and whirled
it away like a torn veil clinging to the briers, through which a zigzag
flash of lightning fell at their feet with a frightful clap of thunder.
"My cap!" cried Spiridion, as the tempest bared his